


through your broken tongue

by bosbie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kinda, M/M, Reluctant relationship counselor Yuri Plisetsky, Russian petnames, Takes place after episode 7 and before episode 8, Yelp is victor's best freind, also features the whole "are we dating?" bit, i mean they don't even know, idk if Russia uses Yelp or if they have a Russian equivalent but let's just pretend they do, russian cursing, victor's a sweetheart, yuuri's homesick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8833579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosbie/pseuds/bosbie
Summary: Yuuri is homesick. Victor scours the city of Moscow in an effort to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> working title for this fic: “im in hel”
> 
> i never thought i’d be writing fanfic for an anime about gay figure skating, but here you go. 
> 
> this was planned out and started before i watched episode 8 rip i hadn't intended on posting it but you kno why tf not
> 
> title from james blake's "Waves Know Shores"

Yuuri picks at his borscht with an uncharacteristic indifference, and Victor puts down his spoon to frown at the sight. He’s taken them to the best, most authentic restaurant for borscht in the entire city of Moscow; it has four dollar signs on Yelp, and he’d expected a bit more for his troubles than a half-hearted smile.

“What’s wrong?” he asks him. The dim atmospheric lighting does wonders to the inviting lines of Yuuri’s face, and Victor sets that observation to the side to remember when he is sad.

“Nothing,” Yuuri says, and he takes a sip of his borscht. “This is very good, Victor, thank you.” The slopes of his dark eyebrows are furrowed, and Victor fights the urge to smooth it down with his thumb.

He doesn’t _have_ to fight it anymore because, they’re, well. But he does so anyway, knowing it to be rude to reach over a table of food merely to touch another’s face.

“Of course,” he says, unconvinced. “You can tell me anything, Yuuri, you know that.”

Yuuri nods and says, “I do.”

He doesn’t want to talk and Victor respects that. They spend the rest of dinner in companionable silence, with Victor letting himself brush his fingers against the back of Yuuri’s hand every now and then to feel the heat of his soft skin. Instead of stammering and flushing a deep red, Yuuri smiles at him. For Victor, that is enough.

  
\-----

  
Victor had kissed Yuuri in Beijing, and Yuuri had let him. Victor would like to think that they're dating.

And they are, he guesses. Yuuri continues to let Victor kiss him after they leave China for the familiar skyline of Moscow, and sometimes he even kisses him back. It’s wonderful, it’s everything Victor could ever have wanted, and he will stand up and refute anyone who tries to say otherwise. He knows what image the media has painted him as throughout the years, and he knows that he has done enough things with enough people to at least warrant some reason for it.

But this boy. This boy! What else could he do besides point at Yuuri’s gliding form on the ice and say, “This boy! He’s the one!”? But Victor has already pushed his luck with the kiss, callous and live on international television. He doesn’t know what Yuuri would do if he did anything as careless as that again. Yuuri hadn’t seemed to mind, but Victor won’t risk the chance of upsetting him; he’s already done that before, and he definitely doesn’t want to do it again.

Victor would like to think that they're dating, but he isn’t one hundred percent sure if they are. They’ve never put a label on it. Neither of them have bothered to bring it up, too busy with both the competition and the newfound discovery that they can kiss each other to acknowledge the elephant in the room that is their relationship.

Is this okay? Is it normal for two people to fall into each other without labelling that they are? Victor wouldn’t know; he’s been in relationships before, but never with Yuuri, with someone he truly feels he could happily spend the rest of his life with. He wants this to be healthy, to last, to be two-sided and communicative and to forever hold the fuzzy light feeling Victor gets whenever they’re in a crowded street and Yuuri decides to reach out and hold his hand.

Victor wants for them to be dating, and they probably are. Just, he doesn’t know for sure.

He’ll ask him, he will. Surely, he can’t edge around this forever.

Maybe after Yuuri wins the Rostelecom Cup.

  
\-----

  
Yuuri says that he wants to stay in the hotel room for the rest of the day, and Victor is concerned. They only have a limited amount of time in Moscow before they have to leave for the next competition and Victor still has so many more places on his list he wants to bring Yuuri. This, moping in the small confines of their hotel room, is, well — it’s not _romantic_. Victor wants to be romantic, and he’s sure he’d be really good at it too if Yuuri would just _let him._

“Tell me what’s wrong, _babochka_ ,” Victor says to him, because he knows Yuuri won’t tell him unless he insists. They’re sitting in bed together, shoulders touching, the light from the late afternoon shining through the open window getting in Victor’s eyes.

Yuuri looks at him. “ _Babochka_?”

Victor blinks at him. “That’s you.”

Used to Victor’s antics, Yuuri lets it go. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, the same as the restaurant, and he gets up to turn on the coffee machine.

This isn’t good. Victor wants Yuuri to open up to him. He thinks he’s done a good job so far in being a good coach and a good friend, someone to confide to. He thought he’d been doing better.

“Did I do something wrong?” Victor asks. He watches Yuuri’s back as it stills. “I don’t —"

“No,” Yuuri says, firm. “No, you — no.”

“Yuuri,” Victor says.

Yuuri’s shoulders slump as he sighs. Victor loves his shoulders, how they're not too broad and not too slender; a man’s shoulders, holding the elegance of a figure skater without taking away the essence of Yuuri that makes him himself. Victor enjoys wrapping an arm around them, a simple anchor for him to the world and figure skating and them.

“I’m just a bit…” Yuuri huffs a small laugh, self-deprecating. Victor tsks his displeasure. “I just miss home a bit.”

“Oh,” Victor says. "You’re homesick.”

“Yeah.”

He pauses. “You’ve been away from home before.”

“I know, but.” Yuuri goes to tear open a pack of instant coffee. “It just hit me, I guess. This is the first time in a while I’ve been in a competition where I’m not friendly with any of the other skaters, and Minako-sensei couldn’t make it, either, and —”

He stops himself, instead opting to fill the coffee maker with water.

“Ah,” Victor says. He understands. “Well, you have me, at least.”

When Yuuri turns to look at him, his eyes are fond. Victor would gladly drown in them if Yuuri would let him. “I do,” he says.

Yuuri goes to continue making his coffee, and Victor revels in the silence. Staying in this hotel room may not be romantic, but it’s all very domestic, somehow. To have such a permanent feeling in such a temporary place such as a hotel room is a surprise, but Victor should be used to surprise by now when it comes from Yuuri.

Victor doesn't like seeing Yuuri upset. Having him cry because of him was one thing, but this? This is new. What can he do to fix this? He says his concerns out loud, contemplative, not expecting a response.

“You don’t need to do anything because there’s nothing for you to fix,” Yuuri answers. He stands at the side of the hotel bed, close enough for Victor to feel the swirl of heat coming from the finished mug of coffee in Yuuri’s hand. “I’m fine. You’re fine. I’ll call home later. Just, stay with me. That’s enough.”

Fingers warm from the coffee brush the bottom of Victor’s jaw. He closes his eyes.

  
\-----

  
Yuri is scowling when he opens his hotel door. “ _Ahueyet_?” he says, rubbing his face with his sleeve. “It’s three in the morning, you _opezdol_.”

“Language please, Yurio,” Victor reprimands, letting himself inside. “Sometimes I forget you’re only a child, with how foul your mouth is.”

“Shut up. And don’t call me Yurio.” Yuri closes the door behind them and crosses his arms together. His hair is tied in a messy bun and there are crease marks and a drool trail on the left side of his face. “Competition is in three days. You better not’ve come here to get anything out of me, because you’re not getting _govno_.”

“This isn’t about the competition,” Victor says. “But this _is_ about Yuuri.”

“What about me?" Yuri says.

“Not you, the other one.”

“Right.” Yuri lets out an impatient breath and scratches at his eyes. “Whatever. What is it.”

“Your enthusiasm is inspiring,” Victor teases, reaching out to mess with Yuri’s already disheveled head of hair. “He says he’s homesick. I need ideas to get him to feel better before competition starts.”

Yuri swats his hand away in irritation. “That’s his problem. The fuck. This is what you woke me up for?”

“This is _important_ , Yurio,” Victor stresses, dramatically falling on Yuri’s unmade bed with a flourish. Flourish: that’s a word the media loves to associate Victor with. He flourishes under pressure, against all the odds; he flourishes in the figure skating world as one of the sport’s living legends; he _flourishes_. It’s a nice thought.

“Sure it’s important,” Yuri says, tone dry. He sits on the corner in the bed as far from Victor as possible, avoiding his grabby arms. “Just, fucking, I don’t know. Facetime his family or something.”

“We did,” Victor reports. “They’re all very proud and will vicariously cheer both of you on the day of competition. Yuuko and the kids said hi.”

“Hmph,” Yuri says, failing to stamp down the look of pleasure off his face at Victor’s words. “And did that work?”

“A bit,” Victor admits. “But. I don’t know. He’s still a bit down, I can feel it. I want to do something to make him feel better.”

“Not to be a sap, but I think your general existence is enough to make him feel, as you say, ‘better.’”

“Me existing isn’t sentimental enough,” Victor argues.

“I don’t know!” He throws his hands up in the air in defeat. “Explore the city. Cook him breakfast. Make sweet love and listen to his pillow talk as he tells you his aspirations in life. Just get the _huy_ out of my room.”

Then: a revelation. Victor rockets out the bed with excitement. “Oh, you’re a _genius_ ,” he says in glee.

“Wait. What,” Yuri says, slightly terrified.

“ _Katsudon_ ,” Victor clarifies, shaking Yuri by the shoulders. “I’ll find a place that sells katsudon and bring it to him. Perfect. Thank you, you smart little boy.”

“That wasn’t even — ugh.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands, face twisted in adolescent disgust. “Go away.”

Victor does, satisfied, and spends the rest of the early morning on Yelp looking for the best Japanese restaurants in Moscow. Yuuri fits nicely wrapped around his arm, his sleeping figure almost heavenly under the light of his phone screen.

  
\-----

  
High on an objective and lack of sleep, Victor leaves the room before Yuuri wakes up. Having narrowed down his destinations into three particular restaurants, he should be able to finish before lunch.

Before leaving the hotel he visits Yuri again. “I’m heading out,” he tells him, “for the task I mentioned earlier. Would you like to join me?”

Yuri blinks up at him, bleary-eyed. It doesn’t look like he had much sleep. “No,” he replies simply, and he slams the door on Victor’s face.

“What a rude child,” Victor mutters without any malice, knowing Yuri can hear him. Alone, he exits the hotel, the cold Russian air greeting him with a freezing familiarity, anticipating the look on Yuuri’s face when he returns.

He’s first spotted a short while later when he reaches Moscow Metro, a gaggle of wide-eyed teenagers with their phones already out in anticipation. He’s used to this. After spending most of the year in Japan Victor had nearly forgotten his popularity in his home country, but what he hasn’t forgotten is how to work the system. A cocky grin and a wink is enough to uphold his image as a Russian hero, an icon photogenic enough to cross the boundary between respected athlete and media sex symbol.

He throws his arms around the two closest to him while they pose for a photo, saying his usual lines of “tag me!” and “thank you for your support!” There’s satisfaction to be found in their excited, awe-struck babbling, the harsh growl of his native tongue rolling over him comfortably, welcoming. He almost misses this.

Time passes him faster than he would like; if he were to stay here Yuuri would be awake before Victor arrives back to their hotel room, wondering why he isn't there for their practice session at the rink. He bids the teenagers a farewell worthy of the name he’s built for himself the past twenty years, grandiose and a spectacle to see. He doesn’t underestimate his fans and he hopes they don't underestimate him.

But what he does underestimate, of course, is the power of social media.

He’s swarmed by the time he purchases his ticket.

  
\-----

  
They’re expensive and flashy in a way only overpriced food can be, but none of them can light a candle to the katsudon from Hasetsu. Victor spends far too much money buying a dish from each of the restaurants he visits, hoping the trek back to the hotel won’t take long enough for the food to get cold.

He bumps into Yuri at the last restaurant he’d planned to visit. “You’re all over Instagram,” is his explanation as to how he knew where to find Victor, contemptibly taking one of the bags from Victor’s hands in a brooding yet oddly considerate manner only teenagers can get away with. Victor smiles. If only Yuuri was with him — then, this day would be perfect.

After glancing at his watch he finds that it’s much later than what he’d anticipated, a good hour into the afternoon; the spectacle with his fans took a big bite off his morning head start. A surprise lunch is already off the table. “Let’s go back,” he tells Yuri, walking towards where he thinks Moscow Metro is.

“Wait wait wait. Are you stupid?” Yuri asks. “People already know you’ve been there; they’ll be scouring every stop for you. Get a taxi.”

“You’re so clever,” Victor says, merely to see Yuri turn red in teenage resilience. More than a decade has passed since he was Yuri’s age. He hopes he wasn’t this angry.

“So why did you change your mind and join me?” Victor asks him when they’re in the taxi. With the snow and the afternoon rush, it had taken them far longer than he’d like to catch a ride. Apparently being a celebrity and national treasure isn’t impressive enough criteria for most taxis to pull over.

“Don’t think too hard, you might hurt yourself,” Yuri says. “I was just walking around when I noticed you were nearby.”

“You were just walking around,” Victor repeats with an amused raise of his eyebrow. “A good half hour train ride away from the hotel?”

“ _Idi v’ zhopu_.”

“Does Yakov know you’re here?” Knowing Yakov, he wouldn’t just let Yuri out of his sights without practice so close to competition, only to fraternize with an ex-student and current adversary.

“Of course not,” Yuri answers with a derisive sniff. “Does _Yuuri_ know you’re here?”

“He’s still sleeping,” Victor says.

“Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that,” Yuri says. “But maybe check your phone first, _opezdol_.”

“Ah,” Victor says. “My phone’s dead.” He hadn’t thought to charge it after his late-night Yelp session.

Yuri pulls out a battery pack and charger cable from his backpack. “See how awarding forward thinking can be?”

As they wait for Victor’s phone to charge, Yuri says, “So.”

“So,” Victor echos.

“Congratulations.”

“For?”

“Ugh.” Yuri pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know what I'm talking about. Surprised to say that I'm not surprised at all. The kiss was _yebani_ over-the-top, but I couldn’t expect anything less from you.”

“I’m touched,” Victor says, placing a hand on his heart. “What kind words, especially coming from you.”

“Does it mean,” Yuri says, ignoring Victor’s jabs, “you’re, um. You know.”

“I don’t.”

“You want me to spell everything out for you?” Yuri’s face is as red as his jacket. It’s endearing. Victor yearns for his childhood, for a time when he can express his feelings as outwardly and pure as Yuri and be called emotive instead of childish.

“Alright, alright,” Victor placates. He settles into his seat and looks out of Yuri’s window. Moscow is a moving picture of winter in November. He may call St. Petersburg his home, but Moscow has always embraced him as welcoming as a city can be, and Victor has always been grateful for that.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, and he watches Yuri’s eyebrows raise in petty judgement. “We’ve never had time to talk about it. It’s been a busy month.”

“Or maybe you haven’t talked about it yet because you don’t know where to start,” Yuri suggests, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Victor stares at Yuri as a smile quirks the corner of his mouth. Little Yuri is growing up. “Or maybe that,” Victor concedes.

“You probably should,” Yuri suggests.

“I should.”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” Yuri observes, begrudgingly accepting.

“Maybe,” Victor says.

Yuri shrugs. “Fine. But I’m just saying. I may be young, but even I can see that romantic relationships need to be romantic relationships in order to last.”

“You’re very smart,” Victor says, awed. Yuri’s eye twitches.

“Of course I am.” Yuri crosses his arm and slouches in his seat, his posture horrible. Lilia would be foaming from the mouth at the sight. On the ice he’s quintessential grace, but in a Moscow taxi he’s like any other teenage boy. “It can’t be that hard. ‘Are we dating?’ That’s it, right? I mean, I can’t say, I’ve never done it before, but it has to be that simple.”

“Right.” Victor wants this conversation to be over. He’s getting relationship advice from a _fifteen year old_. An undeniably discerning fifteen year old, but a fifteen year old nonetheless. This is embarrassing. He hopes the taxi driver isn’t listening in on their conversation.

His phone vibrates in his hands, finally charged enough to turn on.

“Ah,” Victor says, pleasantly surprised.

His phone continues to vibrate, notifications for missed calls and unanswered texts popping up on his home screen.

“Ah,” Victor says again, mildly horrified.

“Told you you should’ve checked your phone,” Yuri says. He sounds smug.

They’re all from Yuuri. Victor is then inexplicably hit with the suppressed knowledge of three things: that he and Yuuri usually have breakfast and practice together; that it’s well into the afternoon; and that Victor hadn’t thought ahead — leading him to conclude that Yuuri doesn't know where the hell Victor is.

“ _Pizdets_ ,” Victor says.

  
\-----

  
It takes them another half hour for the taxi to drive them to the hotel. Victor tosses an excessive amount of rubles at the driver and leaves Yuri at the back seat with one of the packaged katsudon, as compensation for his swift departure. A stream of Russian curses courtesy of Yuri Plisetsky nip at the soles of his feet as he rushes to his and Yuuri’s hotel room. The rest of the katsudon is cold and they no longer feel like they’re worth a day out in Moscow, a day without Yuuri at his side.

Yuuri is waiting, sitting in one of the arm chairs in their hotel room, blinking in surprise when Victor slams the door open. “Victor,” he greets, “hey.”

“I’m so sorry,” Victor begins, jostling the plastic bags of katsudon he carries in both his hands. “You said you were homesick, so I thought I’d buy you some katsudon to remind you of home? It shouldn’t have taken me so long, but I was spotted by fans and it took forever for me and Yurio to get a taxi —”

“Yurio was with you?” Yuuri cuts in.

“He found me through Instagram,” Victor explains.

Yuuri pauses. Victor sets the food aside to hesitatingly sit besides him, and Yuuri lets him. “I could have came with you.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You didn't need to.”

“But I wanted to,” Victor stresses. “And my phone died. I didn’t get any of your calls, I’m sorry.”

Yuuri looks down at his lap, curling his hands together. He doesn’t seem angry. Victor doesn’t want him to be, for such a stupid mistake.

“You called me _babochka_ ,” Yuuri says, muses, murmurs almost to himself. “Is that what you said, yesterday?”

Victor doesn’t know what Yuuri is getting at. “Yes,” he whispers. “It’s not a swear word. It’s…”

“Butterfly,” Yuuri finishes for him. “I looked it up earlier. You called me butterfly?”

“Yes,” Victor says. “I can stop, if you want.”

Yuuri thinks for a moment. “Don’t stop,” he decides. “I like it.” He leans forward, closer to him. Victor would like to kiss him.

“Are we —?” Victor blurts out, gracelessly, not at all how he’d want to say it. With skates on his feet and frost whipping at his face he is comfortable, but this is not like anything he’s ever tried before. He’s scared, but it’s exhilarating. “Are we dating? You and me?”

Yuuri rubs his fingers together, as if he is staving off the cold bite of winter. “We can be,” he says at last, and he lifts his head to look at him. “I want to be, if that’s alright.”

Victor grasps for breath but can only gulp down his own spit. “Okay,” he breathes, reaching for Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri’s fingers are long, scorching; Victor wants to feel them trace down his freezing skin, to make his skin warm again. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> kind of rushed the end, i hope that's okay.
> 
> 100% inspired by the book ‘equations of life’ by simon morden. it has nothing to do with this fic….at all...but the main character is a foul-mouthed russian and i got all my russian swears+Other Things from it. if you like russian mobs+the yakuza, quantum physics, and gun-toting nuns, check it out!!
> 
> all the russian is pretty self-explanatory, so there’s no need for me to translate them.
> 
> i'd like to write more for this fandom but i don't have any ideas lol. visit me on tumblr at [giftwrappingpaper](http://giftwrappingpaper.tumblr.com) so we can scream into the void together
> 
> don't forget to kudos and comment down below what you think!! this is my first (and probably last tbh) yoi fic so i really want some feedback :)


End file.
